


This Is For You

by deathwailart



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-15
Updated: 2012-04-15
Packaged: 2017-11-03 17:07:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/383850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathwailart/pseuds/deathwailart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Look at the sky: that is for you. Look at each person’s face as you pass on the street: those faces are for you. And the street itself, and the ground under the street, and the ball of fire underneath the ground: all these things are for you. They are as much for you as they are for other people. Remember this when you wake up in the morning and think you have nothing." - Miranda July</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Is For You

He could feel them pressing in on him even above the oppressive heat of Jerusalem, unwashed bodies crowding close in the back alleys as he made his way through the streets in search of a target, keeping to where it was less likely he would be disturbed by guards who kept a hand on the hilt of their swords at all times. No, the word was spreading and so he had to keep out of sight more than usual. The noise of the streets followed him, shouts from the vendors selling clothing, spices, weapons, pots, fresh meat, fruit and vegetables and whatever else drew a crowd of onlookers. It was always a trial to weave through the bodies, especially the women with pots precariously balanced, one wayward arm enough to cause the pot to smash upon the ground, angry shrieks and eyes, too many eyes, all on him. Thugs prowled, punching a fist into an open palm, jeering at him if he got too close; they never noticed his fingers skimming over their belts to pluck throwing knives when his supplies were low.  
  
It was harder to avoid the drunks though. Or the destitute women who pleaded for money he didn't have. Or the poor souls with their minds in pieces who lashed out, grumbling, laughing and shoving, clutching themselves after. They prowled in these forgotten places, clung to it. When they came too close, close enough to hear and sense but not to see - the cowl is good for many things but not his peripheral vision - that is when he took to the rooftops, shimmying up ladders or up the sides of buildings.  
  
Of course there were guards stationed on the rooftops, their presence growing as news spread of his deeds from city to city. But he had been trained to watch their movements since childhood and he waited, followed their path and either avoided them completely or struck. The hidden blade punching through a throat from behind, before they even knew they were not alone or a quick one-two of the throwing knives, to the back or rarely to the chest, enough to bring them down and leave them for the next rotation to find. Assuming they did not plummet to the street below sending up a terrified scream.  
  
He should not be so amused that the guards so seldom think to look up, he thinks.  
  
The world rushed by faster as he traversed the rooftops, the steady thump of his boots or body when he landed or rolled to take the impact, the whispers of his robes or the sharp crack when the wind caught them, the knocking of his sheathes as he moved. Every movement precise and balanced enough to reduce the noise to the bare minimum. No normal guards or even the Templars moved the way an Assassin did. He was close now judging from the sea of red below when he peered down, the guard presence heavier as he dispatched them efficiently, listening to the criers in the street, proclaiming the name of Salāḥ ad-Dīn, listing his deeds.  
  
Dropping down, he cut through another alley, adjusting his hood, painfully aware of how many eyes might be on him at any given moment. He passed a group of vigilantes, relatives or friends of a woman he had rescued, who had thanked him even as the corpses of four guards lay at his feet, blood and entrails spilling out, some with limbs bent in unnatural ways. They nodded, he gave the slightest inclination of his head as recognition. It was good to have allies. He kept walking, pressing in through a throng of onlookers, parting them as best he could to move forward, to cut down his target, spotting a gathering of holy men also moving and he seized his chance to fall in line with them, hands clasped, head bowed, the slow step of the pious, burdened by their holy calling.  
  
He looked up once, letting the rest of the world fall silent. No jeering crowd. No taunting Templar. No guards telling citizens to behave. Not even his own breathing as his eyes confirmed that this was the man, outlined in gold. He sprang from the holy men, surging forward, blade at the ready.  
  
There was a reason some called them unholy demons. They moved in a way not taught, speed and strength, too precise, not an ounce of fear to be found and this one had no time to draw his weapon before cold steel pierced his neck, splashing over Altaïr's hand and then over his chest when he withdrew the blade, the mark gurgling and clutching his throat, eyes wide. So many of them looked like this, as if they could not comprehend that death had seized them. But there was no time to linger. The world that had stopped in shock awoke, buzzing, an angry hornet's nest and his blade slid away as he drew his sword, the exit cut off for now until panic dispersed the crowd. Guards charged, screaming at their comrades, screaming bloody vengeance upon Altaïr.  
  
_Let them come_ , he thought, grim smile on his face, _I am ready_.


End file.
